Not My Blogger
by DennyDifferent
Summary: A group of murders renders the worlds only consulting detective baffled, however the police force seem to be ahead of him. Something is stopping Sherlock to see what everyone else is.    OC used, but not an important part of the story.
1. Chapter 1

Prologue

John Watson stood silently next to a quiet London road, no doubt the lack of traffic was due to the rolls of police tape barricading the normally throbbing street, but his mind was too clouded with sleep to put two and two together. All he could think about was the fact that it was bloody cold for November, and how weird it was to be able to see your breath. He pulled his thin leather jacket around him before reluctantly turning and walking through the smashed doors of a particularly rough looking pub- The fox and rooster. Of course, any pub decorated with a dead body looked rough.

"The trajectory of the shot shows that it'd have to be taken from above..." John rolled his eyes at his flatmate, who had been running around like a whippet since receiving a text from Detective Inspector Lestrade regarding a shooting. His pre-case celebration had resulted in John being dragged out of bed at two O'clock in the morning. Said flatmate was currently leaping onto a very unstable looking table to examine the ceiling. "AH! Found it!" He exclaimed, leaping down and running up the stairs. "Come on, John!" He yelled, not pausing to see if his companion was following him.

John glanced at a bemused looking silver-haired man for permission, simply receiving a long-suffering nod, before running after his friend.

"Sherlock, will you please slow down?" He yelled, following him into what appeared to be the master bedroom. He was met by the sight of Sherlock staring in confusion at a mirror laden wall.

"It doesn't make sense, the room should be bigger!" He exclaimed, running to the window and attempting to lean out of it, only succeeding in getting his shoulders stuck. "Is there a window? Maybe a room's been blocked?" John walked towards the mirrors and carefully pushed the one on the right, it moved backwards and rolled freely.

"Huh, interesting wardrobe." He mused, turning to see a shell-shocked Sherlock, his mouth gaping. "John... Remind me about this later." He said, before all but diving into the wardrobe and examining it, in the bottom corner there were a few gaps where the decaying wood had created what were essentially peep-holes, allowing someone to have a restricted view of the floor bellow, next to them was a very clear bullet hole. Sherlock slowly crept out, explaining his findings to John, and Lestrade, who had now joined them. "So what have we learnt?" He asked, looking incredibly dishevelled and slightly disappointed. "John, you seem to be more observant than usual?"

John blinked and narrowed his eyes. "Erm... I dunno, the killer must have known about the wardrobe... So... They've been here before?" He replies, triumphantly, stopping himself from groaning at the effort that it took.

"Sparkling form. Truly, it's incredible, given the circumstances." Sherlock added, earning a furious glare from his friend.

"Circumstances?" Lestrade piped up, eyebrows raised.

"John got home at half one after celebrating his sisters Birthday." Sherlock explained, ignoring the death glare and turning towards the door.

Lestrade chuckled, but cast John a sympathetic smile. "You better get some sleep." Sherlock glanced back, holding open the door for his companion to join him.

"That, Inspector, is the most useful thing you've said all morning." He commented dryly, placing a hand on John's shoulder and leading him into the cold morning air. "Ask the wife who visited regularly, more importantly people who had access to that room, they'll probably have a military or law enforcement background, judging by the fact that they handled the shot in one go." He informed Lestrade, before casting the comment. "My money's on the Nephew." over his shoulder and herding his friend towards the taxi rank.

That was two months ago. Since then, the seemingly innocent murder case had been joined by five more. The Nephew was innocent. There were no bullets left on the scene, ballistics reports were not accurate. Sherlock Holmes was getting increasingly agitated. John Watson's bad dreams were increasing. London was no longer safe.


	2. MI6, Secret Service and tea maker

Chapter One - MI6, Secret Service and tea maker.

"No, Mycroft, this is not me crawling to you for help" Spat a disgruntled looking Sherlock Holmes, pacing round the small sitting room of 221B baker street at a speed that seemed dangerous in the confined space.

"Mind the mug!" Yelled an equally disgruntled John Watson, launching himself forward to steady his mug of tea that the detective had nearly been the destruction of. "If you're going to march round the room can you take off that ridiculous coat?" He hissed to his flatmate, who sent him a silencing glare and continued to yell down the phone. John sighed and strode forward, taking it from him and fiddling with it until Mycroft Holmes' aristocratic drawl filled the room. "You're on speaker phone." John informed him, taking his seat again.

"Yes, I was well aware of that, thank you Doctor Watson..." John sighed and rolled his eyes, taking a sip of his tea, and sheltering it from the clutches of the stir-crazy detective. "The point remains, Sherlock, I cannot simply give you the footage. If you want it all you have to do is ask that Detective Inspector friend of yours." Sherlock practically growled, running a hand through his hair as if trying to calm himself down.

"You know full well that you can give it to me, Mycroft." He spat his brothers name as if it were a curse, clenching his fists.

"Good bye, Sherlock." Mycroft uttered, before the line was cut off.

"It's heart warming to see you getting on so well with your brother." John commented, grinning in spite of himself. "You know, you could just ask Lestrade for the CCTV footage, he wouldn't say no." Apparently, his words were of no use, because he got no reply. He sighed and stood up, ready to leave, when the phone gave a shrill ring. Sherlock darted forward to answer, looking hopeful.

"16th November, yeah?" John glanced at Sherlock in confusion at the new voice, once again, he got no explanation.

"Indeed. I was wondering when you'd make your presence known." Sherlock replied, finally stopping his frantic pacing.

"Mmm... Well I've been busy."

"Quite. What's he got you doing now?" Sherlock actually seemed interested, something John found both amazing and confusing.

"Criminal Psychology, a bit more academic than previous, but I though it'd be good to try."

"Three months, almost a record."

"I'm not going to humour you, Sherlock. I'm outside."

"I thought as much." The detective made no move to get the door, and John waited for a knock but to no avail. He jumped as the door was flung open. A woman of about 25 walked in, clad in an expensive looking leather jacked and jeans that were clearly not shop-bought. Not from any shop in London, anyway. She took off her hat and chucked it on the free chair, followed by her jacked, revealing a green silk shirt, John shook his head, utterly bemused. She chucked a small USB.

"All the footage in central London on the 16th, don't mention it to Mycroft or I'm for it."

Sherlock snorted. "I'd hate to have him cut your clothing allowance." He muttered, plugging it into his laptop. He glanced up at his visitor. "How's the diet."

She rolled her eyes. "How should I know?" She replied, equally as stubborn as the detective.

"Okay, I give up, what's going on? Who are- are you Mycroft's wife?" John exclaimed, the thought that Mycroft even had a wife was creepy enough, let alone someone about 30 years younger than him. Sherlock snorted and the woman shot the detective a glare.

"Lovely thought, but incest doesn't appeal to me." She replied smoothly, receiving a gawp from John. Sherlock had a sister? She seemed to read his mind (Something which happened to him increasingly), and shook her head. "I'm their cousin, although I might as well be their sister. I lived with them for long enough."

Sherlock snorted again. "By live, you mean to told the police that it was your home and slept god knows were every night?" He muttered, tapping impatiently at the keyboard.

"Obviously." She muttered, staring around the room in interest, before looking back at John. "Addison-Evander Hardy. MI6, secret service... tea maker." She grinned. "Nice to finally meet you, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock looked across at them. "Otherwise known as that manipulative cow with the red hair." He snapped. "Leave John be, Addison, I didn't ask for a chat. Can you close the door on your way out?"

Addison raised an eyebrow. "As you wish. See you next time you need to be bailed out or dragged to hospital." She said, a sickly sweet tone in her voice.

"No longer required." Sherlock growled, eyes not leaving her retreating figure until he heard the door shut.

John sat very still. "Why is it that whenever I meet a member of your family I get the impression that they're a criminal?" He said finally.

"She is." Was the only reply that Sherlock would give, not that he would have continued, because that moment he had access to the footage. John sighed inwardly, it was going to be a long day.


End file.
